


Shower Power

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M, Porn, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:01:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's never had anyone do this before. Maybe a kiss or two, from adventurous girlfriends, a lick from a particularly sloppy blow jobs. Nothing like this.</p><p>(Or - note the creative title)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shower Power

"Ow."

Rodney braces his arms against the shower wall. He hurts. Everywhere. There is no muscle that is not throbbing in agony and it's his own fault, really, since Sheppard gets that challenging look in his eye that says _my_ scientist can beat the pants off of any of my soldiers—he can't, at all, but he doesn't mind the appreciative looks he gets when he keeps going and going, an energizer bunny that runs on bitching—and Rodney's _conditioned_ to respond to that damned look. He's like some stupid dog, rising up with a yap of excitement every fucking time. A single raised eyebrow, a smugly tilted corner of his mouth, and Rodney really can do anything, no matter what he says, because he knows Sheppard is right there at his side.

"Really, really ow. Don't think 'ow' encompasses jus' how excruciating this is."

Of course, Sheppard isn't here _now_. Oh, no. Sheppard is off celebrating Rodney's victory with the _case of beer_ he won— _Rodney_ won. The one that Rodney can't partake in because, as previously mentioned, _every single part of him hurts_.

"Owwwww."

Fortunately, Atlantis still loves him. He pats the slick material of the shower, sighing gratefully as the water turns a little bit hotter, angles a little bit higher, sluicing down the ache in his shoulder blade. "Good Atlantis," he slurs. "Nice, 'lantis. You love me, 'lantis."

He's slightly punch-drunk from exhaustion and pain. Any doctor would testify to that in court, he's sure of it.

He's just letting his forehead rest against the material, which is not nearly soft enough for a head, whatever his hands might believe, when the door to the shower _bursts_ open, and Rodney whirls around with reaction time he'll be proud of later. Much later, because apparently, his pain before was only a _precursor_ to the agonizing hell waiting for him. As each muscle tenses, trying vainly to perform their function, nerves sizzle and pop beneath his skin and through the terror and pain, he hopes that whatever's accosting him will actually kill him because _that will be so much better_.

Except he's not being attacked. He's also not dying, which is good, as he doesn't want to die and hey, he's thinking more clearly now. He blames it on adrenaline. He's not giving pain that much credit.

"Um?" he says, staring.

John kicks off the last of his pants, flashing up a dopey, slick-lipped smile. "You ran ten laps, Rodney," he says and barrels his way into the shower, fitting his face to Rodney's neck and inhaling. "You went through the whole obstacle course."

"Yes? Um, ow, okay, jaw bone, perilously close to soft tissue!"

John ignores him, rubbing his mouth and nose against Rodney's skin with another deep inhalation. "You fired in the black, every time."

"Actually, the kill-zone is red? I'm quite proud of myself for realizing this, as I'm prone to the occasional color blindness and—um? Ohhhh." Rodney's mouth keeps moving but there aren't any words coming out. He finds he's okay with that, though, because John is bent over his chest so he can lick and suck Rodney's nipples, really going at them the way Rodney's always _wanted_ him to do and the way John still has some weird hang ups about.

What those hang ups are, Rodney can't figure out. John's the gay one here. Doesn't gay automatically equal not vanilla? Doesn't it by _nature_ imply a certain amount of adventurousness and a willingness for experimentation, two things, Rodney has frequently pointed out, John exhibits in every _other_ aspect of his life?

Jesus, John is _slurping_ , messy and wet, and hotter than the water that still rains down all around them. Rodney has no idea why the hell he's thinking.

"Lean back," John murmurs, and Rodney does. "Let me, god, you actually _scored with a knife_ ," he asks and really, Rodney has no problems with the way John leaves wet, red marks all over his chest, gripping Rodney's back and ass tightly as he works his way downward. He's already breathing heavily—has since he arrived, Rodney is relatively certain—and looking down Rodney can see rather proud evidence of just how happy John is.

"Back, go back," John says again. Rodney gets it, eventually—he's _in pain_ , although certainly less than before, now that John's doing his level best to coax his nerves into completely different responses, and very tired—leaning fully against a wall that warms under his body heat, spreading his legs in invitation.

When John finally settles on his knees, it's like time stops. Because John is wet and still grimy from before, with a dark smudge underneath his right eye where the dirt's been ground in. He looks old, really, hints of silver at his temples, wandering paths through chest hair that slowly flattens to his skin, pounded down by the water. He's _hot_ though, all long, lean muscle, bunched up into position, his legs looking more powerful despite being folded and oh, oh, the look on John's face.

It's like Rodney did the impossible. Not the improbable, because really, Rodney does that all the time. But the impossible. He did things that he, Rodney, scientist extraordinaire, isn't supposed to do. He did them for John.

And John knows it. It's written in every line of his vibrating, eager body, every crease along his eyes and mouth, smile lines that glow without ever dimpling. It's in his eyes, star burst and black holes darkening the center, spreading outward, with a combination of awe and affection that is somehow made more by the bemused indulgence that John never, ever seems to lose when it comes to Rodney. Like he's a kid brother, and yet more.

"John," he rasps. It's hard to stand under the power of that gaze. He's always done the impossible, always claimed he was the only one who _could_ —but this makes him feel humble. "John, what are you—"

"I'm going to suck you off now," John rumbles, hands rubbing up and down Rodney's legs, up over his hips and along his belly before sliding down to repeat the circuit. "I'm going to suck you until you're coming down my throat. Okay?"

Rodney tries to breathe. He doesn't do very well at it, for all his wheezing effort. For a gay man, John isn't fond of blow jobs—well, giving them—preferring the homosexual equivalent of missionary and really, Rodney's been dreaming about this since he _saw_ that pink, full mouth and thought about all the things it could do.

"Yeah," he squeaks. Swallowing, hastily, he tries again: "Yeah, okay. You can, um. Go ahead?"

The water's turned off at some point, although Rodney has no idea when. He doesn't care. Because he can see all the muscles in John's back tense and release, rippling under his skin, his slim hips and his surprisingly full ass, all of it working in a purely physical, purely _masculine_ kind of way as John rocks back and forth. Rodney's got both hands flat against the wall, arms spread wide, and maybe he needs some other kind of leverage and except oh, maybe not, because there are John's arms again, those big, huge hands gliding all over Rodney's body, pinning him back against the wall and supporting him and that's when Rodney's brain turns off completely.

At first John buries his face against the base of Rodney's cock, breathing in soft, wet puffs. It's the worst kind of tease, but there's no way Rodney can move so he shivers and sweats through it, praying for more. There is more, eventually. John mouths over him, up to the middle of his belly, lipping over the sensitive skin between torso and thigh, the base of his cock, down over his balls, all of it spreading warmth and a damp promise that has Rodney feeling hushed. It's a reverent kind of gesture, for all it's carnal, like how sometimes Rodney just sits and looks around him, at the city and all her boundless glory, all for him to play with.

The first touch of John's tongue, tracing lightly over his sac, is electric. The zing wakes him up completely, yes, but it also leaves him stupid and staring because oh, god. John uses just the point for a little, carefully mapping out every line and contour. And then, oh, and then he carefully lets those fantastic pink lips get fuller and broader, stretching as he sucks first one, then the other of Rodney's balls into his mouth.

"Oh," Rodney says—whimpers—above him and digs his fingers into the wall. "Oh, god."

He's never had anyone do this before. Maybe a kiss or two, from adventurous girlfriends, a lick from particularly sloppy blow jobs. Nothing like this, this focused attention as John's mouth cradles the most sensitive part of Rodney, breathing and sucking and Rodney's cock, which was hard the moment John appeared already half naked, starts to ache with anticipation.

"God, oh god, oh god," Rodney babbles. He unclenches one hand and lets it drop, his palm curving over John's concaved cheek, feeling the restrained power, the hollow strength of his cheekbone, the way stubble rasps painful and addictive back and form across his palm. "John. God, John don't _tease_."

"You cleaned and reassembled a gun faster than anyone else," John whispers, offering the words to Rodney's groin like they're something precious. "You did it _blindfolded_."

That was the _easiest_ of all the hellishly complicated assignments from today, but Rodney doesn't say that. He can't say anything but inarticulate moans because John has reared back just enough to lift his head, angling his neck so that when he sinks down he takes _everything_.

_"Sheppard."_

John hums a distracted question as he slowly backs up, then sinks down again. It's messy, _sloppy_ , since already John's cheeks and chin are wet and so are Rodney's thighs and it's got nothing to do with their hair dripping over their temples. John's got his hands around Rodney's waist, elbows gawky as they point out, gripping the soft skin at the base of Rodney's spine, his ass, tugging him forward into John's hot, wet mouth.

His hot, _voracious_ mouth, because god, this isn't a man who's never given a blow job before, or has and doesn't particularly like it. This is a man who _loves_ giving blow jobs, lashes a fluttering dark smudge on his cheeks, eyes rolling against thin lids as they fight not to fall back completely. There isn't much expression when your mouth is stretched, lips turning redder and more swollen with each new pass, but what Rodney sees is the bliss of a man who wants nothing more than this.

John blows him, eager and sweet, spending all the careful time that's needed, in a first blow job, trading licks for nips and careful hints of teeth, pulling off so he can suck wetly around the puffy head, kissing and licking over the slit, flicking his tongue to the base of the head, chuckling when Rodney squeaks and grabs for the wall and John's head simultaneously, reaffirming his grip.

There are noises, too, a lot of them coming from Rodney, who only gets quiet towards the very end. John, for once, makes lots of noises, eager moans and half-laughs, long, hummed notes that make Rodney's knees shake. He's taking Rodney apart with each new trick, each plain, sloppy drag from base to tip, and honestly, Rodney suspects it wouldn't even matter if he wasn't here. John is sucking with almost mindless devotion to the act itself, and it's hot, it's _so extremely hot_ , but—

And then John's eyes open, flicking up through the haze and latching onto Rodney's. There's nothing mindless there, for all there's only a thin rim of green around black. Rodney sees the kinds of things John normally hides away, all of it laid scraped open and bare even as he takes Rodney in deepest yet, swallowing repeatedly around the head of his cock.

Later, Rodney claims it was the swallowing that set him off. It's a lie, though. The physical act is only as pleasurable as your partners enjoyment, his participation, and Rodney shakes and whines in pleasure laced with razor fire, flowing down his spine and then out in a wave that John swallows, moaning, eagerly looking for more while his own body splashes warm release all over Rodney's leg.

Eventually, when Rodney's dick is utterly flaccid and clean, when John's mouth is still coated with something clear, and neither of them are panting, Rodney's knees start to give out.

It's inevitable, really. He's surprised they didn't go earlier.

"Hey, whoa," John chuckles, jumping to his feet way too easily for a man who's older than Rodney, catching him around the waist and leaning him against John's shoulder.

Rodney goes, grateful, clutching at that warm, lean strength he's slept beside for the past three months. The one he's forgotten how to sleep without. "Mm. Brain broken," he says, happily.

Chuckling, John twists his neck like a snake, allowing them a short, chaste kiss. It tastes of salt. "I doubt that. You still hurting?"

Is he what? If he thinks very hard—his eyebrows wrinkle and everything, he can feel it—he can sort of remember hurting. It's a distant throb, though, like he's forgotten how to register it, even if might still be there. "Um. Maybe?"

Another laugh. "Yeah, okay, loopy-man. Time for you to be in bed. You're gonna hurt like hell tomorrow."

The shower is hot and fast, John doing most of the work. As it should be.

"S'your fault," Rodney grumbles. John has an arm around his waist and he leans against him heavily, trusting John's knees and feet to do all the work. It's mostly successful, other than going over the bump between bathroom and the rest of his room. That hurts. "Your stupid obs—obsta— _course_ you made me ran. 'M a _scientist_. I fix things, not run aroun' playin' Tarzan."

"Rodney, you were nothing like Tarzan." They aren't dry, but when Rodney's tipped and bounced into bed, he doesn't care. "You were, however, incredibly hot. You did everything." John sounds dreamy as he tucks them both under the covers. "Every single thing asked of you."

"Sure I did. Always do what you as' me to."

"Rodney you never—" John breaks off, pushing up on an elbow with sudden thought. "Huh. I guess you do, really."

"See!" Rodney jabs an unsteady finger at him. It ends up pointing somewhere around his shoulder. "Always do what you need."

Expression softening, John lets his free hand wander over Rodney's chest even as he leans down for a soft kiss. "Yeah, McKay, you really do."

Sleep is laden down with naquadah-heavy weights and Rodney isn't a fighter. But there's a niggling thought that won't let go, as he leans into John's shoulder, breathing in skin that tastes of the minerals in Atlantis' water. That's familiar, and comforting to him. "You," he says. "An' blow jobs. 'Sup with that?"

"'Sup?"

He growls. "Blow jobs! You were—" Forcing himself a little more awake, Rodney wriggles upright, weight on both elbows, tucked beneath his chest. "You like 'em."

"Yeah, I like them," John says quietly. Pink spreads over his cheeks, heating up the thin skin of his ears. "I like them a lot."

"Idiot." Rodney tries to cuff him but ends up letting the arm droop over John's chest. "What's so bad about that? I like giving blow jobs, too." He does. He's not quite as good as John, clearly, but he really likes the way John gets noisier and noisier, usually grabbing anything not Rodney's head or shoulders, gripping until something snaps. "What's the problem?"

"I, ah." It's dark, and late, and they're both exhausted and high off of a long day's work and a heady orgasm and Rodney can _feel_ when John decides to tell the truth. "I like them a _lot._ I've had... complaints."

Rodney's eyes narrow. "You've had people _complain_ about how often you want to _suck their dick_?" Not a single word is slurred.

"Uh. Yeah?"

Hurrumphing, Rodney lays back down, curling into John's body with a frown of annoyance. "Morons," he decrees.

"Rodney, you don't—"

"Shhh! Morons! No other word describes them!"

"See about that after you've had two weeks of me," John mumbles, and the there's no squirming, but that's mostly because Rodney's too heavy to allow it.

"Does this mean I can't fuck you anymore?"

"What? No, of course not!"

"Then they're morons," Rodney says, and wonders if this is the end of missionary-only positions. He's always wanted to try doggy-style. "Go to sleep."

There's silence for a few moments, both of them breathing slow and steady. "You ran the whole course, Rodney. The _whole thing_. It was—"

"A feat of incredible skill and talent?"

"Hot. Really, really hot. I couldn't wait to get you back here."

"Oh. Huh. That's nice." Rodney forces one eye open. "I'm not doing this again. Ever. I want that in writing somewhere."

John laughs, arms tightening around his back and then releasing. Someone, somewhere, might've called that a hug. Rodney just thinks it's good. "You don't have to run it again, Rodney."

"Good. Night, John."

Lips, warm and surprisingly soft, brush against his forehead. "'night."


End file.
